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05 November 2004 @ 09:48 am
Forgive me for not writing as much as I should, dearest journal. But my anger and my rage have prevented me from forming a coherent thought, let alone string them into words! Mother is doting ever more upon Eleanore, and Eleanore is laping it up like spoiled mutt. Why must Mother make things so complicated? Doesn't she know that I am the only one worthy of her affections? The only one with a sensitive enough soul to fully comprehend her pain and her eternal suffering? I AM THE DAUGHTER MOST DESERVING!

But no, she gives this praise to Eleanore and leaves me to putter alone in the damnable shed that has become my only refuge. The hours upon hours I spend in their, painting the images of my mind is my only release. For Mother gives me no love... she reserves herself only for Eleanore.

There is only one answer to this. I must make Eleanore as still life is - cold, uncaring... and completely under my control.

I'm terribly afraid that I must kill Eleanore.